Chapter Text
It was duty. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Lady Alysara Hightower felt the cold stone beneath her knees as she prayed. Hours had passed and she had fasted, offered penance, whispered every supplication she could imagine. That, she thought, was all that lay within her power. Tears slipped down her cheeks, warm and unbidden, even with her eyes closed, and she did not brush them away.
The guards had grown impatient, their presence pressing like a shadow at the edges of her devotion. At first, they had suggested she rise, then they demanded it.
Alysara finally obeyed, rising slowly. Her knees ached, a sharp reminder of the hours spent in prayer. And yet, pain brought clarity, as she had always believed it did. “Perhaps”, she thought, “if I am not freed from this duty, it is what the gods intend and I will honor them”.
Her bedchambers were bare, stripped almost entirely of comfort, save for the small shrine she had requested after her husband’s death. There she could pray uninterrupted, without the intrusion of the household or the weight of idle conversation.
The guards led her to the garden, where her father sat beneath the shade of an oak, sunlight striking his stern features. She paused at the threshold, murmuring a quick prayer and ignoring the irritation radiating from the men flanking her. Then she stepped forward.
Lady Alysara was barely ten-and-nine, her name day had passed only a fortnight ago. And yet, her father’s gaze carried the quiet, inexorable pressure of one who feared time. He had long been unhappy that his only daughter remained unmarried after the death of her husband. Four days ago, he had summoned her, and she had pleaded, wept, and begged for mercy, but he had not relented. The marriage proposal had been offered, and he had accepted it on her behalf.
For four days, she had prayed, fasted, offered herself in penance. The gods, it seemed, had not listened.
She straightened her posture, suppressing the ache in her chest. When her father informed her that her bedchamber carriage would take her to King’s Landing that afternoon, she nodded. He would follow on horseback, alongside her older brother, the heir, as was proper.
“You will wed into a good family, my dear,” he said, his voice weary, carrying more concern than pride. “You will be cared for, when the gods see fit to take me.”
Alysara lowered her eyes, agreeing. She understood. Her father was no longer young, and he could not risk leaving his only daughter unwed, with the shadow of his mortality looming over their household, duty was all that remained.
And yet, a part of her longed to speak, to demand: had tending to her late husband not been enough? Had enduring the marriage and obligations, standing by every demand from her stern husband, not been enough? Had planning the funeral, comforting the grieving, and sacrificing every ounce of herself to care for others, not been enough? She had fulfilled her duty countless times, she had prayed, wept, labored, obeyed, and still, it was never enough.
But she said nothing. Her lips pressed together, her hands folded over her lap. These thoughts she would carry silently, and later, in the quiet of her chambers, she would kneel once more and pray for them to fade, leaving only obedience and faith in their place.
“Yes, father” she replied, collected and resigned, but unhappy “I will see to it that my maids prepare my clothes and books for the trip.”
.
The carriage jolted along the uneven road, and Lady Alysara Hightower pressed her hands to her knees to steady herself. It took a fortnight, but finally the city of King’s Landing rose ahead, massive and unwelcoming, its red walls gleaming like fire against the pale afternoon sky.
She buried her face in the folds of her black veil, though it did little to hide the tremor of her lips and the tears that threatened beneath her closed eyes. Her mourning gown hung heavy on her small and too thin frame, black silk stitched with silver thread that formed tiny flowers along the hem and cuffs. The silver caught the light faintly, a reminder of her family, of the house that still clung to her even as she felt the ground shift beneath her. Her copper-red hair, was braided simply beneath the veil, and it felt like a weight on her shoulders, a crown she did not want to wear.
She whispered a prayer under her breath, clinging to the words as if the gods themselves could shield her from the dread coiling in her chest. “Let me be strong, let me do my duty”. Her blue eyes peeked from beneath the veil, wide and uncertain, scanning the city that seemed far too vast, far too alive, far too dangerous.
When the carriage reached the gates of the Red Keep, she stiffened. The guards helped her down, their hands brushing against her sleeves. She stepped carefully, almost timidly, one foot in front of the other, her body trembling despite her effort to stand straight. She wanted to flee, to hide, to curl into herself where no one could see her loss or her fear, but the memory of her prayers and her duty held her still.
Her eyes, wide and haunted, met the doors of the Red Keep as they swung open. The halls beyond were wide, echoing, and terrifying in their emptiness. She swallowed hard, her throat tight, and whispered another prayer, this one more urgent: “Give me strength to do what must be done. Help me serve my house, and honor my father and the gods.”
And so she stepped forward, a young girl in mourning, trembling and small, but carrying herself with the fragile weight of obedience. Duty had brought her here, faith anchored her trembling heart, and grief draped over her like a cloak heavier than any she had ever worn.
The audience chamber of the Red Keep was larger than any hall she had ever entered, its vaulted ceiling gilded and gleaming, banners of the dragon and the Hightower fluttering faintly in the warm breeze from open windows. Lady Alysara Hightower clutched the folds of her black mourning gown, her fingers brushing the silver-threaded lighthouses along the hem as if they could anchor her trembling heart.
The chamber was crowded with the weight of expectation. Aerion Targaryen stood near his father, the hand of the king. Prince Maekar Targaryen was tall and composed, his silver hair falling just past his shoulders, eyes violet as they flicked toward her. Beside him, Prince Aerion Targaryen.
He stood at the center of the chamber, tall and commanding, every inch a prince of Valyrian blood. His short silver-gold hair caught the light like spun metal, and his lilac eyes assessed her with an unsettling precision. His doublet of deep crimson silk, embroidered with black dragons, and his matching cloak flowed behind him, clasped at the shoulder with a silver dragon. A ceremonial sword rested at his hip, its hilt engraved with dragons, polished to reflect the light. Every from the color, the embroidery, to the glint of silver rings announced power, authority, and danger.
Across the chamber, her father, Lord Hightower, and her brother, the heir, stood stiff and formal, eyes trained on the girl who was their charge. They did not touch her, and she did not step forward without permission. The septons and attendants, the heralds, and the guards created a line of quiet authority, a buffer between the young widow and the prince she was promised to.
Alysara’s knees trembled, but she forced herself to stand straight, clinging to the slender thread of duty that had guided her since her husband’s death. She dipped her head in a small, careful bow, her voice barely above a whisper: “Your Grace.”
Aerion’s eyes lingered on her, measuring the young widow. He noted her trembling hands, the pale tightness of her lips, the way her wide eyes flicked nervously across the chamber. And yet, even in mourning, there was a flicker of resolve in her posture. It was a faint, defiant weight beneath her fear.
Prince Maekar Targaryen spoke first, his voice calm but firm.
“Lady Alysara, welcome to King’s Landing. You are received by the crown, as duty requires. Prince Aerion, this is the lady promised to you.”
Aerion’s gaze swept over her slowly, and though he did not speak, there was a spark of interest in his pale lilac eyes, something dark and measuring. He noted the careful weight of her steps, the youth still visible beneath her widow’s mourning. She was young and she was frightened, yet composed in her own fragile way, and he recognized at once that fear had not made her cower.
Lady Alysara dipped her head in a small, hesitant bow.
“Your Grace,” she whispered, her voice low, carrying more humility than confidence. She dared not glance directly at him, though she could feel his eyes upon her, weighing her as one might a delicate, dangerous jewel.
Aerion inclined his head slightly, expression unreadable, but the corners of his lips hinted at a faint, controlled amusement.
“Lady Alysara, you came draped in black,” he said, his voice loud enough for the chamber to hear, sharp and deliberate. “A widow before her nineteenth name day, and yet expected to wed another so soon.” His gaze lingered on her blue eyes beneath the veil. “Do you weep for your late husband, or because of your future husband, Lady Alysara?”
He spoke with the ease of authority, letting the weight of the question hang in the room. The Hightowers stiffened. Aerion’s expression remained unreadable, cold, calculating, and a little cruel, but his eyes glimmered with interest, not concern.
“You have traveled far, and grief’s no easy companion.” Prince Maekar intervened, his gaze gentle upon his son’s bride although his tone was hard as the stone walls of the keep. “Take your place among us, and know that you are expected only to do your duty. The rest… the rest will follow in time.”
Her father, Lord Hightower, stepped forward, voice firm but quiet.
“My daughter will behave with all the respect due her prince and the crown. She’s young, Your Grace, and grief is heavy upon her, but her house will see that she is honored.”
Aerion nodded, seemingly bored, and turned his attention briefly to his father, then back to Alysara.
“See that she’s cared for,” he said softly, but there was an edge to his tone that made even the Hightowers pause. “And that she learns her place quickly. The Red Keep does not forgive hesitation.”
Alysara’s heart fluttered, but she did not move. She wondered if he spoke of the weight of expectation of court or of his own, feeling the stone-cold weight of the chamber, the scrutiny of the Targaryens, and the careful watch of her own family. She was small, young, and terrified in the den of dragons.
.
The sept was quiet, its vaulted ceiling stretching high above her, pale stone arches catching the soft afternoon light that spilled through tall, arched windows. The flicker of candles along the walls cast shadows that danced over carved reliefs of the Seven, their solemn faces carved into niches, silent witnesses to every whispered prayer.
Alysara knelt on the cold stone floor, her black mourning gown pooling around her slender frame. Her eyes were fixed on the small statues of the Maiden and the Mother. The scent of beeswax and incense lingered in the air, thick and sweet, a faint comfort that reminded her of home and of the septs she had known in Oldtown.
She crossed herself slowly, lips moving in a prayer she barely heard aloud. “Mother, guide me, for I feel lost. Maiden, keep me safe.” Her voice trembled, barely above a whisper. Even here, among the silent grandeur, she felt the weight of being observed, though no one was present. The sept’s echo carried her soft words back to her, making the emptiness feel larger, more oppressive.
Her hands rested against the smooth stone of the altar, fingers brushing the carved forms of the gods. The Crone’s lanterned face seemed to watch her with patient understanding; the Warrior’s sword gleamed faintly in the candlelight, a reminder of courage she did not feel. She closed her eyes and let herself feel the ache in her chest. There was the grief for her late husband, the fear of her new life, the tension that never left her shoulders.
For a long moment, she said nothing but prayed in silence, letting her tears fall freely onto the stone floor. She did not wipe them, did not attempt to steady her trembling hands. Duty had required her obedience and faith gave her permission to release a fragment of what she carried.
She thought of Prince Aerion Targaryen. Beautiful, yes, but cruel and perilous. She had clung to hope, whispered prayers that the tales were mere exaggerations, the gossip of servants and courtiers inflating the prince’s misdeeds. Yet the moment she met his gaze, the weight of his words upon her arrival, all pretense of doubt vanished. He was neither gentle nor forgiving, and she understood, with a chill that settled in her chest, that he would be neither kind nor easy to bear.
When she finally rose, her knees stiff and sore, she touched the altar lightly, whispering a final prayer of thanks and protection. The candles flickered, casting long shadows across the sept, and she felt, for the briefest instant, that she was not alone, that the Seven were watching.
She had convinced her new ladies-in-waiting to allow her a moment to herself so she could pray alone, so she could try to receive guidance from the gods. It was not proper for her to walk alone, but she had no intentions of straying. She wished to go directly to her bedchambers and not leave until next morning for her morning prayers.
She was, then, caught by surprise when prince Aerion was waiting outside the Red Keep Sept.
He stepped into the quiet sept, merely one step and as if even that were concession enough, his lilac eyes scanning the shadowed arches until they settled on her kneeling figure. The faint glow of candlelight caught in his silver-gold hair, and the red-and-black embroidery of his doublet shimmered in the dim light.
“So this is where the future princess hides,” he said softly, but with that sharp, dangerous edge that unsettled her. He did not wait for an answer. “I have never gone inside.”
Alysara’s voice trembled slightly. “Do you not pray, my prince?”
Aerion shook his head, his pale hair catching the candlelight. His eyes glimmered with a dangerous pride, and a faint smile curved his lips.
“No,” he said softly, letting the words linger. “I do not pray. I am a dragon, not a man. The gods bow to me, not I to them.”
He stepped closer, letting the heat of his presence brush against her, the sharp, unnatural confidence of his words making the chamber seem smaller, colder.
“Do you hope your prayers will change what cannot be changed?” he asked, voice low, almost teasing.
Alysara smoothed the folds of her black gown, her hands trembling ever so slightly, but she held his gaze.
“I am no dragon, my prince,” she said softly, yet with a forced shallow calmness. “I am merely a woman. I draw my strength from prayer, my guidance from faith. I accept the fate the gods have set before me. My house, my Lord father, and my blood all believe in duty. I’ll do mine as best I can. I’ll not bring shame upon you, nor your house. I cannot promise love, but I can promise obedience, honor, and devotion to all that is required of me. This I vow.”
Aerion’s pale eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and the faint curl of his lips deepened. It was not in amusement, exactly, but in a quiet, imperious assessment. He took a slow step closer, the red-and-black embroidery of his doublet so stark against his complexion, the faint scent of incense clinging to the sept.
His gaze lingered on her hands, clenched at her sides, and the pale lines of her face beneath her veil.
“You speak well, Lady Alysara,” he said, voice smooth, low, and edged with something cold that made the stone floor seem harder beneath her knees. “Obedience, honor, devotion. Those are all admirable words for one so small, so fragile. You pray to gods who won’t answer, and yet you claim to accept fate. Tell me, little bird, do you think the Seven will protect you from me? Or from what you will endure within our marriage?”
Her voice trembled, barely above a whisper, yet firm in its resolve. “I’ll pray the gods guide you, guide your hands and your tongue, so that you shall not be cruel.”
She lowered her eyes, folding her hands tightly in front of her body, letting the words hang between them like a fragile shield. The prince did not answer. Perhaps, for a fleeting moment, he had already chosen to spare cruelty.
Then his hand came to rest on her wrist. Long, strong fingers encircled it completely, firm but controlled. Without ceremony, he guided her hand to rest upon his arm, the gesture at once and not gentle at all.
“I’ll walk you back to your quarters, Lady Alysara,” he said, his voice low and deliberate, a faint curl of amusement at the edges. “There’s mild concern that you might attempt to escape from marrying me, little bird.”
He did not release her wrist. His gaze lingered on her face, sharp and assessing, as if measuring every tremor, every flutter of her pulse.
“Thank you, my prince, you are very kind” was all she answered.
The Red Keep corridors stretched before them, stone walls echoing the soft click of their steps. Her hand rested lightly on his arm, small and hesitant, yet deliberate.
He studied her as they walked, her blue eyes wide, careful, and fearful, flicking nervously from torch sconces to shadowed corners. So young, so proper, so fragile, and yet she carried herself with a quiet, stubborn dignity that intrigued him. The way she knelt in the sept, whispered prayers to gods he did not fear, the tense strength of her fingers on his arm, all of it told him she would not be a simple plaything.
Yet that only made her more interesting. The girl had already begun to test the edges of the cage built around her, and he liked the tension it created. As they reached her door, he hovered a little longer. It was not proper, but the prince did not care.
“You will stop wearing black.” he said firmly, voice smooth, but edged with command.
Alysara’s heart skipped, and she clutched at the folds of her gown to hide any tremor of her hands.
“I… I am in mourning, my prince,” she said meekly, voice barely above a whisper. “It it proper for a widow…”
He took a step closer, the space between them shrinking, a dragon in human skin circling the girl who dared refuse his order.
“Widow?” His lips curved faintly, a smile so cruel it could be a snarl. “You’re no longer a widow, you’re my bride.”
Alysara swallowed, her fingers tightening at her sides. Tears welled up in her blue eyes. “Please.”
“No more black,” he repeated in a tone that left no room for questioning, in a tone of a prince who was not used to being disobeyed. “You’ll wear the colors of your new house. You are to be a princess now, Lady Alysara, not a widow. You will dress like one who belongs to me, and to House Targaryen. You’ll obey this as you have obeyed every other command your Lord father has given.”
Her pulse raced, but she bowed her head slightly, lips pressed together. She would obey, that was her duty. But why did it hurt so deeply?
Aerion stepped back, eyes lingering on her pale face, measuring her response, savoring the silent acknowledgment that she would follow, yet not without thought. The hallway seemed smaller, colder, and she felt it press against her like a living thing: the prince’s will, unyielding, undeniable, and impossible to ignore.
Aerion left her after her weak agreement, he walked back to his own bedchambers imagining her prayers to the Maiden and the Mother, and wondering if any god had the power to keep her safe from him after the wedding.
He imagined her now in her chambers, the door closed against the corridors of the Red Keep, wondering what she feared, if she feared him. The faint quiver in her lips, the rigid straightness of her back, the careful words she had spoken, they were all marks of a spirit not easily subdued.
Aerion’s lips curved faintly, a smile that did not reach his eyes. He did not desire cruelty for its own sake, he desired obedience, acknowledgment, and fascination. And this one. this tiny, grieving Hightower, had already shown she could bend under pressure, but not entirely. That made her more entertaining. More dangerous, perhaps, in ways he relished.
Dragons did not kneel, dragons did not pray. But even dragons enjoyed watching mortals cling to the illusions of protection.